


World Peace for An Afternoon

by DenseHumboldt



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gift Fic, Spy Story, Undercover, bad at history, fic prompt, gallya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 06:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenseHumboldt/pseuds/DenseHumboldt
Summary: Post-Revolution CubaU.N.C.L.E is trying to track down information on a shadowy revolutionary figure and keep tabs on the ever-evolving situation on the island





	World Peace for An Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eosdawns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eosdawns/gifts).

> This is my first time writing Gallya and I hope I did them justice, they are an OTP of mine since the movie came out.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I appreciate it so much.
> 
> DH

Illya Kuryakin hated the heat. It was uncivilized. He leaned his hip on the low balcony wall and lit his cigarette. The fine knit of his shirt was collecting sweat. He wondered how the Cowboy managed to flounce about in three-piece suits without melting.

His balcony looked down on the beach. It was early still, the usual crowd had yet to descend. One woman walked along the water. She was long-limbed and lithe. She looked beautiful in white though he rarely thought to tell her. It took a certain grace to pull off white. Not every woman could do it.

He wanted her to look up at him. It was a useless notion. Romantic fantasy. And yet he found it compelling; the picture of him on the balcony and her barefoot in the water.

The phone rang in his suite. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked back inside. The blue plaster walls were peeling like the white paint on the balcony. The telephone was heavy, industrial and old. He lifted it on the third ring. He stayed silent.

"Herr Schmidt?" Illya made a small sound. "The weather will be fine today."

The British voice on the other end belonged to Waverly's assistant, Gloria. Blonde, blue-eyed. Cowboy was an admirer. Kuryakin wondered if she was calling from his room.

"I will take my wife on an outing. Where do you recommend?"

This was the agreed script. If Solo had a buyer for the Álvarez then Gaby and Illya were to be there for the handoff.

"The Salon is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I wouldn't recommend missing it."

Illya grunted and put the receiver down. An illegal art deal happening at the biggest art show in post-revolution Cuba. Hardly subtle.

Like any revolution, Cuba's came with censorship and restriction. Satire was as dangerous as Deification. The portrait Solo claimed to be selling was over a decade old. Painted when Cuba was a different country. Its subject wanted it back. Or at least the leaders of the new Cuba wanted it removed.

Illya looked out to the beach again, he could still see her. The fantasy was broken. He walked back to the balcony and vaulted the low side. His feet met sand, the drop had been minimal and the path more direct than winding his way to the beach through the hotel lobby.

He followed the woman, slowly, deliberately. Her pace was unaltered as if she was unaware she was being tailed. Two years ago he would have assumed this was the case. She had been a trembling slip of a girl on the wrong side of the wall. Now he knew better the multitudes she contained. He liked the way her muscles moved as she walked. She paused as the water lapped at her feet. She adjusted one gold sandal.

"Are you going to say good morning or just follow me silently?" She asked as she straightened.

"How long would you let me follow you?"

"Depends, would you buy my breakfast?" She turned to look at him one hand guarding her hat against gusts. The Cuban sun had given her freckles.

"British Intelligence pays better than Russian," he smiled at her.

"I suppose that's true," she reached out to him taking his arm. It was all a ruse she promised herself. The small slivers of affection. This was meant to be their honeymoon. Or at least that was the cover. They seemed to always be marrying her, Solo or Kuryakin. It made Gaby tired how many doors only opened with the right ring on your finger. She wondered as the years ticked by if she would ever have one of her own. Someone to come home to. It might make it easier not to lean on Illya as they walked. Easier to part when the mission ended.

"Cowboy has a buyer," Illya said in his peculiar way. The master of making sounds past unmoving lips. Gaby hummed her understanding.

"There will be propagandists there. And important leaders. The information on where the Second is should be easy to shake loose." He looked down at her with his sweet schoolboy smile, "with enough champagne and charm."

"Catch me up, Kuryakin. Isn't this skirmish between your two countries? The two new superpowers fighting for paradise? The Cubans seem stuck in the middle."

"Different branches have different loyalties. A missing revolutionary leader isn't good for either side."

"So, we find the Second's location and whoever has men closest, kills him?" She sounded a little indignant. Her words always had the fine blue flame of a welder's torch.

Illya let her arm slip away from his as she took a few steps forward.

"Do you question the mission's integrity?"

"No," she turned from him. Something ticked inside Kuryakin. A clock. A countdown. Old anger rolling over in his stomach.

"My integrity, then?"

"Illya," she turned back to look at him. She rarely said his name, his first name even less. Seldom with affection. Never to comfort. To hear it now. Something in him trembled again.

"Little Chop Shop Girl," he growled at her. "No one wants to be the reason for death and destruction in this world. If you could take one life to balance the scales-"

"The problem is," Gaby kept walking refusing to look at his blue eyes as he justified their life. "We never know how long the scales will stay righted. If one life only gains us an afternoon of World Peace then does it matter how the balance swings?"

"Will you leave us?" Illya followed her.

She laughed. Bitter, sad. Had he ever heard her laugh unburdened?

"And miss all the fun? Never."

* * *

The salon stretched for what seemed like a mile of riotous color. Expressionism, Primitivism, paint smears like beasts leaping across the canvas. It was jarring to be surrounded by such vivid canvases filled with weeping women.

Gaby was in blue.

He could see her drifting arm in arm with an olive clad General. He watched her. Marked her. When she turned he read her lips.

"You seem worried, Peril," Solo noted into the bottom of his champagne glass. He leaned on the same high table but his back was to Illya. Kuryakin did not kid himself that anything escaped Solo's notice even when his back was turned. Respect, though begrudging, had grown.

"I am fine, Cowboy."

"Gaby looks lovely," Solo answered as if Illya had not spoken. "She has been with our friend for a long time."

"What are you implying?" Illya muttered through his teeth. He forced himself to relax his grip. He had cut himself before when the American had riled his temper near champagne flutes.

"Nothing at all. Nothing at all." Solo took a sip of his drink and smiled at women as they passed. "Only that my government knows, and I can only assume your government knows, that the British have been moving their missions in the Congo and the mountains. That they have been wrong more times than they have been right when it comes to the Second."

"No intell is perfect," Illya grit.

"And no one expects it to be, Peril. But when you are trying to stay on the right side of the Wall then you need to be worth the effort. Unless," Solo's eyes found Gaby in the crowd easily. "You have a backup plan in Paradise."

"Excuse me," Illya muttered. The ticking was back. He could only see Gaby. His eyes laser-focused on her.

"Peril?" he heard Solo's voice only as a distant echo. He wouldn't follow him. Couldn't follow him. They had no reason to talk. No reason to be alone but Gaby had no excuse. They were undercover as newlyweds. She could not avoid him.

Illya appeared in their path. Gaby stopped short her eyes wide in surprise.

"Klaus?" She used his codename. She sounded breathless. Surprised. How much of Gaby was an act? How much had always been an act?

"Ada," he inclined his head and offered her his arm. The General she walked with was forced to relinquish her.

"Frau Schmidt, your husband I presume?" The Cuban extended his hand. Illya looked at it intensely for a moment before his muscles responded, gripping the hand too tight.

"Klaus, meet my new friend. We were discussing the importance of Cultural Exchange-"

"Ada, I need you," Illya steered her away with barely a nod. The General looked a little stunned, adrift in a sea of milling couples.

"What are you doing?" Gaby hissed, trying to break a grip like iron in her arm.

"We need to talk," Illya ground out each syllable, his body leaning into her. She tried to smile. People would notice her being forced from the room by her giant of a 'husband'.

"We can't talk here?" She said through her clenched smile.

"No," he moved them down the hallway. He found a door and pushed her through it.

Gaby broke away from him, her eyes scouring the room.

"Are you aware this is a women's washroom?" She asked angling her chin to look at him. He didn't believe what the Germans said about breeding but Gaby Teller could never hide the life she was born into beneath engine oil and mechanic's clothes.

"I need to talk to you."

"We could have talked outside." She straightened invisible wrinkles in her dress.

"Not about-"

There were voices outside the door. Gaby made a small sound of surprise as Illya rushed her into the stall behind her.

"They'll notice two sets of feet" she protested as he followed her into the cramped space. He grunted and scooped her up by the waist. Instinctively her legs wrapped around him as he pushed her back into the wall.

There was the sound of the door opening.

"_Your _feet will be the ones to stand out," she hissed hot in his ear. He covered her mouth with one hand his head cocked listening.

Spanish rose over the stalls. Loud flamboyant conversation. Not his specialty. He pressed firmer against her, trying to hear. Even her heartbeat distracted him.

She reached and grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back so he was looking into her eyes. Eyes that were wide. The voices carried on and water ran.

"_I can't breathe," _she wheezed into the echo of his palm. He removed his hand over her mouth apologetically. She tilted her head back pulling in gasps of air around the weight of his body. The talking faded as the two women left the washroom.

He was going to let her down when the door opened again. Slow steady steps, shoes with heels. Shoes without heels. A man and a woman. 

"Were you able to make contact?" The man asked in Castilian.

The first stall swung open as someone pushed the door. It banged loud. 

"He hasn't left yet," the woman answered. The second stall banged.

They were the third stall. They stopped outside. Illya knew from the pause they had seen his feet. Gaby was holding her breath her eyes on the shoes. Illya did the only thing that came to mind, either because he might be about to be shot by a Bolivian or because it was all he had thought about for the last four years.

He grunted pushing her into the stall so it banged loudly with the force of her back hitting it. Gaby groaned into his shoulder and he enjoyed petty revenge for the coffee table in Italy. It would be rude to kiss her without her permission so he banged her into the stall again and she made more noise. He only knew so much German but he used what he could, moaning obscenities in Gaby's ear as he slammed his hands over the stall edge. 

The feet stepped back slightly. Gaby looked at him as if he was part mad, part genius as her legs gripped him tighter to make up for the arms that no longer held her. She moaned in German, her native tongue. She knew all the words he had wanted to hear from her. She knew what women moaned.

"Let's leave them. If it's that German beast, he is as big as a house." The man muttered.

Footsteps retreated. Illya shook the stall until he was certain the door closed. He sagged a little.

"Put me down, my arse is pins and needles" Gaby hissed. Illya huffed into her neck.

"You are the one with pythons for legs. You cut off my blood flow," he murmured lowering her slowly.

"That's not entirely true," Gaby muttered as she moved down his body.

"Shut up, Chop Shop Girl."

Illya opened the door and peeked around. The bathroom was empty.

"Did your General friend speak Castilian?" He asked icily as he moved to open the door. In the mirror he could see Gaby pushing her dress down her thighs, covering garters. He looked away as her eyes flicked up to meet his.

"I don't know," she spit out. "Someone dragged me away before I could find out."

There was no breath. No chance to reflect. Only the pursuit. They walked down the hallway arm in arm. 

"Do you see Solo?" She muttered delicately in his ear. He smiled easily as if it was a sweet nothing.

"Talking to a brunette," he answered through clenched teeth.

"That narrows it down," Gaby sighed. She was shorter than him. He was the one who could see through the crowd.

He took fresh champagne from a passing waiter. "He is talking to a five-foot-seven brunette in a knock off Balenciaga."

"Alright, slightly more detail."

Solo drained his champagne flute and turned it neatly upside down. The woman glanced at him curiously but he just winked at her and offered her his arm.

"The buyer is a no show. Looks like Cowboy has a date for the evening," Illya muttered walking Gaby to a place the crowd parted. They stood in front of a Picasso and admired it. Illya kept his eyes glancing around. The art surrounding him was an easy excuse that let him keep an eye on their teammate.

"Lucky him," Gaby sighed. Illya wondered if she knew her head rested against his arm.

* * *

They returned to the hotel in silence. Gaby gratefully kicked off her shoes and peeled off her stockings. Illya looked away as she moved her skirt.

"It's too hot here. I don't know how you stay dressed that way." Gaby groaned as she curled up on the couch.

"There is not much choice, in civilized society."

"Be uncivilized for me and beg the front desk for a bottle," she leaned over the back to look at him.

"A bottle of what?"

"Anything," Gaby sighed. She reclined on the sofa with her arms stretched above her head. Mild guilt needled at Illya for slamming her so hard into the wooden partition. A walk meant he could check the Cowboy made it back to his room.

"Fine," he inclined his head, reaching for his pocketbook.

"You can take mine, darling" she teased. "British make more after all."

He didn't take her up on her offer. He wanted information. She might give it up if she drank.

It was not an easy process haggling for luxuries. When he returned the lights were out in the hotel room. A sliver of gold shone from beneath the bathroom door.

He could hear water running. He knocked on the door.

"Who's there?" Gaby's voice echoed in the tile room.

"Very funny," Illya leaned against the wall. "I have your bottle."

"Excellent, bring a glass."

"You want me to come in there?" Illya was immediately suspicious.

"Of course, darling. No secrets. We're married now. Bring. A. Glass." She enunciated again and his hackles raised. There was no mocking in her voice. Only warm invitation. The water was still running.

"Let me take off my watch," he called through the door. He walked to the table and dialed the room upstairs. He left it off the hook as Solo answered. "I will be right in, darling."

He walked to his luggage and pulled out a gun. He abandoned the rum on the bed.

"Is your watch giving you problems?" She called through the door. He was certain he heard water splashing over the tiles.

"I am coming in," he called through the door his hand poised over the handle. "I hope you are in the tub"

There was a loud splash as he flung the door open. Illya fired the gun once. The man in the bathroom shrieked as Illya grazed his hand the bullet lodging in the wall. He dropped his gun and Illya lunged at him. Gaby was in the tub. She turned off the water that was overflowing, the tiles growing slick as she displaced more water. Illya and the man grappled. He dragged him to the tub and bent him over. Gaby jumped on his head holding him underwater.

The door kicked in and Solo came in gun drawn.

"I hope I didn't misread my invitation, Peril." He called into the darkened hotel room. The bathroom was the obvious source of the commotion.

He came to the open door to find the Russian wrapped around a burly man, his head lolling unconscious and his hair sopping wet. The bathroom was soaked. Gaby was in the tub looking shocked.

"Good timing, Cowboy," Illya panted.

"Is he dead?"

"No. Lots of life in him for questioning," Illya growled.

"My friends or yours?" Solo asked leaning on the jamb.

"Yours," Illya snarled. "Mine will make a mess."

"Well, you kids sit tight."

Solo disappeared from the room. Through the open door, Illya could hear the dial of a rotary phone. He looked at Gaby, despite the heat of the bath she shivered. He wanted to let go of the man and go to her. He couldn't.

* * *

The Americans came quickly, they lifted the man off Illya and took him away in cuffs. Gaby had drained the tub but was now shivering harder in her soaked robe. The water on the floor had soaked through his clothes.

Once the man was off him Illya struggled to his feet. He met Solo outside.

"Is she okay?" Solo asked in a low voice glancing to the bath.

"She will be better once everyone is gone," Illya murmured. 

"I rang for the maid," Solo nodded to a stack of fresh linens piled on the table just inside the room.

"Thank you, Cowboy."

"It will be a long night. Take care of her."

Then Solo was gone and the American agents. Illya took the stack of towels into the bathroom.

"Stand up," he said harshly. Gaby only looked at him blankly. He rested the towels on the cistern and lifted her under the arms until she was forced to stand on her own two feet. Her eyes were wide. "You're an agent. You should be used to this."

Something cracked in Gaby. She flung her arms around his neck pulling him close to her. She soaked him more as they embraced.

"I thought he might kill you. I was so worried you wouldn't understand," her hand laced through his hair as she breathed in a shaking breath. He wrapped his arms around her.

"You were being so nice to me, how could I misunderstand?" He whispered into her neck. She laughed, relieved and a little hysterical. Her fingers rubbed into the back of his head.

"Did he touch you?" Illya asked. He feared the answer.

"No," she let him go sniffing into her sleeve.

"Good," Illya took a towel and began to dry her hair. "It would be hard for me to kill him now the Americans have him."

More laughter, this time like sobs. He handed her the towel and turned away to strip off his shirt. It would stretch now the knit was wet. A shame. It was a nice shirt. He heard the thud of the heavy wet rob falling. He kept his back turned, muscles like stone.

Thin arms wrapped around his middle and she lay her cheek on his back. They stood like that for a moment until he couldn't stand the tenderness anymore. He turned and looked down at her. She was wrapped in a towel her hair a mess where he had dried it. Nothing about the moment was perfect. He kissed her anyway.

He held her chin and her arms came around his neck. He lifted her, feeling bare legs against his skin. He grunted against her lips as he kissed her over and over.

He carried her through the dark to the bed they never shared. One knee braced into the mattress as he hinged them forward. He had forgotten how good it felt to be skin to skin. The way moving over one another created sparks like static. Her hands reached for his belt. He raised his body off her, their lips parting with a soft sound. She caught his bottom teeth for a moment as he lifted his head. The ache was so good.

"One moment," he murmured hand reaching blindly into the nightstand drawer. Finding nothing it crawled around the top following the smooth ceramic curve of the lamp. His mouth returned to her as she pulled him back down.

"What are you doing?" She asked against his lips.

"American-made," he answered lifting back to show her the small flat bug. He cracked it between his fingers. "Very low tech."

She laughed rolling him on his back.

"This is a terrible idea," she sighed straddling his hips. Her fingers moved over his chest over and over like a cat.

"I agree," his tone flat.

"You do?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Yes. The woman should be on the bottom" he grabbed her shoulders and rolled her again as she beat his chest.

* * *

It was almost dawn, Gaby was splayed naked over him. Her fingers making small circles over an old scar. His finger traced a similar pattern on her shoulder.

"Still believe women should be on bottom?" She asked her voice on the edge of sleep.

"You made an illuminating argument." 

She scoffed lifting her head to look at him, chin cushioned on his sternum.

"What did you want to talk about earlier?"

"It doesn't matter," he moved his hand to brush the hair out of her eyes. "You don't want to stay here, do you?"

"In bed?" She purred.

"In Cuba."

"Hardly the place to set up office," she lay her head down again listening to his heartbeat. 

"You seemed conflicted earlier."

"I am. Doesn't mean I am going anywhere." She looked up through her lashes and smiled at him, "besides you owe me an afternoon of World Peace."

The phone rang and she moaned.

"I'll get it. Stay in bed."

Illya grabbed a cigarette as he carried the phone and its long cord to the balcony.

He answered it. He said nothing the only sound the sizzle of his cigarette lighting.

"Peril, forget what I said earlier."

"I never remember what you say, Cowboy," Illya drew in smoke.

"Your friend cracked. Gloria is the leak."

Illya looked inside at the woman curled up in bed. He drew in a long drag of smoke. The paper burned quickly

"I know, is the American intell that far behind?"

There was a pause on the other end as Illya stubbed out his cigarette.

"Never change, Peril."

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note to say that the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Revolution in Cuba is a very complex and serious topic. I don't take referencing it lightly. If I was doing more than a one-shot I would have done more thorough research. As that was not the point of the exercise I have only made brief and convoluted allusions to what was occurring. I chose Cuba to take a break from writing just about Europe.
> 
> I hope I was successful and inoffensive in my efforts.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
